Brannok Freeborn
Clad in bark-dyed leathers, the Brannok archers arrive on shaggy hill ponies, their great hounds padding silently at their sides. Their cloaks are woven from goat wool and thorn-brush netting, providing camouflage in forest and field alike. They speak plainly, often with the faint lilt of song, and prize loyalty over coin. From the high hollows and rolling woods west of Ashkarin, the Brannok view this trade not as commerce, but as an oath-binding rite.
NPC: Hadrin Two-Whistles, a wiry hunter with a half-missing ear and laughing eyes.
"If your coin’s good and your scent’s clean, we’ll trade. If not—walk the long way home, friend."
Thundrakir Clans
Towering and horn-helmed, the Thundrakir emerge from the frost-choked passes with axes strapped to their backs and wind-burned faces painted in storm runes. They hail from the northern spines of Draxigar, where ice and thunder rule. Their voices boom like avalanches, but they are surprisingly gentle with children and dogs. Feasting is their diplomacy; to drink and share salted meats is to bind temporary peace.
NPC: Vurni Skull-Knitter, an elderly woman with a braid like a rope coil and ice beads on her beard.
"I saw you flinch. Good. Means you’re alive. Now take this mead and tell me what you fear."
Irkathi Stonemarch
Grim and deliberate, the Irkathi arrive on rams the size of ponies, their braided beards bound in bronze rings. They wear hide-and-mail armor etched with feud glyphs, and their speech is slow, each word measured like stone. From the high ridges of the Blackfang Foothills, they are craftsmen and warriors both, known for their stone-hard deals and long, glacial tempers.
NPC: Drogan the Third Brother, whose bald pate is tattooed with the names of his slain kin.
"If I trade you this, and you misuse it, your name will rest beside theirs."
Ashen Knollsmen
Ritual-painted and tattooed with clan-line spirals, the Knollsmen approach in slow formation, bearing cudgels and totems. From the barrowlands east of Ashkarin, they honor their dead with every deal, setting small stones or feathers beside what they offer. They mutter prayers as they trade, and their faces betray nothing. Outsiders may find them eerie—but never dishonest.
NPC: Morra the Oathwife, tall and unblinking, her hands always folded until a deal is struck.
"The stone remembers. So do I. Let’s not lie to either."